


Shelter

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Series: As Close As You Can, For As Long As It Lasts [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Body Worship, Character Study, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 03:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15501057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Some comfort together after drinking one of Caduceus' brews.





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> It's too soon to be writing something like this, I'm sorry but I just had this little self-indulgent thing swirling in my head and I had to put it to paper. It'll probably age horribly so if this is your cup of tea *wink*, enjoy it while it's piping hot.

"You smell good." Caleb can't help but scoff, the others' constant commenting and complaining about his smell and personal hygiene springing to the forefront of his mind and clouding Caduceus’ attempt at flattery. "Of fresh earth and tossed soil. Of new life." The taller figure bends and buries his face in Caleb’s hair, a mess of reddish-browns bursting like a halo over roughspun blankets, broken by the stray strand of peach-colored locks, their hair twining and twisting together, seemingly mirroring their limbs.

Clay grasps one of his hands between his own and raises it in front of his face. He breathes in and places a kiss in the middle of Caleb's calloused palm. "So warm. Like sun-kissed tree bark."

Caleb shudders, the memory of what his hands have done still too bright, too close even after the years gone by. He can’t understand how someone could ever be able to find some merits to a weapon. Caduceus has seen what that hand is capable of, and yet he elects to see beyond it, to make a thinly veiled compliment, one that hits the mark. And it only stings for a second before the firbolg moves onward along his body.

His face nestles in the crook of Caleb's neck, where dirt gives way to the wizard's own masculine musk. The short grey fur covering most of him is ticklish against the soft underside of his jaw and he can barely hold in a shaky laugh. A soft blush blooms high across his cheeks, instead, and a sigh escapes him as Clay's wet nose paints stripes down his throat, nuzzling and forcefully pushing against his Adam's apple, as if he’s looking for something with purpose, making Caleb swallow involuntarily and his mouth fall open to let more air fill his lungs.

Then, his eyes close, blissed out, faint shapes moving in front of his heavy lids, unrecognizable except for their sheer size. Clay’s shadow covers him as far the eye can see, once he feels like blinking them open just a fraction, and the light from the fire pit outside, illuminating the fabric of their tent and filtering through ever so softly, makes the edges of his body glow, pulsing, golden and creamy, melting in the watery foreground as his eyes can’t take the strain and shut once again.

It’s surreal, like a dream, like bursting fireflies shifting into stars, woven into a blanket of midnight blue, and back into fireflies again, only to die in a flicker of popping embers, swirling above a fire.

The brew is working its obscure magic, relaxing every muscle in Caleb's body, unraveling knots and kinks in his shoulders and back. He feels himself melt, molding to Clay's shape, filling every gap as if his body is a web, carefully designed by a spider to perfectly stick to every nook and cranny, making the most of what room there is, occupying every last inch. The tea makes him feels slow and lazy, his mind finally quiets down. He feels like molasses when he's casting a spell, thick and heavy but easy. He feels like he'd do anything Clay would have him do, go anywhere he needs him to be. Just a vessel, loose and welcoming.

Kisses pepper his neck, his jaw, his cheek, until he can't take any more of that closeness that just isn't enough. He gathers what strength he has left in his loose limbs and raises to meet Clay's mouth with his. It's perfect. Herbal, soft, pliant and sweet. Unsure but a quick study, soon they're tongue against tongue, learning the shape of each other's blunt teeth and every ridge on the roof of their mouths. When they break apart to breathe, Caleb stares dreamily into Clay's bright, lust-addled eyes before boldly licking along his cleft lips, up across the warm line that leads to his nose, where mouth becomes snout. It's wet, even before he explores the flat point with a wide swipe of his tongue, he can tell the moisture was already there, a foreign perspiration that captivates and intrigues him. Salty, like tears, and then he tastes himself. Between each of Clay's hot breaths, among the exhale of grass-scented air, there's the dust of the earth that the firbolg gathered nosing at his own collarbones. To his surprise he can't find it in himself to feel disgusted. There's just peace and curiosity. He tongues back down, along that ridge that guides him into his mouth again. Before he can get lost in the moment, though, he kisses back up, eager to know what the rest of him feels like.

Past the rosy tip and up, up the fuzzy bridge of his nose, a curved plane that reminds him of kissing Frumpkin at the top of his head, where the fur's denser and tighter, shorter and carrying what he can only think of as the unique scent of the Feywild – clean, open fields, non-existent until you dare looking. He finds himself wanting more, and the discovery doesn’t come as a surprise. Stretching his body, joints popping and back arching, bringing all of him closer to all of Clay, he reaches the firbolg's forehead and there's so much to kiss, not just here but everywhere. For a second he feels overwhelmed, wanting to touch with his lips and fingers everything within reach all at the same time, but the feeling passes when he resorts to studying the body in front of himself little by little, worshipping everything, if not today, eventually. Soon, though.  
His hands creep up between their bodies, unsure but with purpose. Where to start?

He finds Clay's own, much larger hand, and blindly explores it, his eyes closed once again to savor the tactile sensations and nothing else. He really tries to not get overwhelmed but it's always bordering on too much. The short, barely there fur on the back of his hand, the blunt fingernails that let themselves be studied before moving down his wrist and lightly scratching at old scabs, Clay's fingers long and deft and, before he knows, Caleb's realizes he's the one being explored. His face dips against Clay's chest, burrowing between the gentle folds of his silken shirt. The soft fabric is even more of a blessing when it touches against Caleb's growing stubble, sliding down his scraped cheeks like a balm, but it lacks the closeness of skin. Oh, what he'd give to feel Clay's skin, the dense planes of his bare chest, scouring the length of his arms, touching everywhere on his body at once! He wonders what it'd be like to be surrounded by it.

He wonders, mind starting to drift, but it doesn’t last long, as moments later the tea warming him up inside starts taking hold, scattering his thoughts. A special brew, made specifically to suit his needs, as the answer to unspoken questions, the solution to just what Caleb needed, and he'd downed the pleasant liquid without hesitation, too, fully trusting the man stirring the pot. Now, he knows it wasn't just meant to relax him, but indeed to put him to sleep – a dreamless, deep and unavoidable slumber. It's harder to lift his hand to Clay's face, now, his body plunging into unconsciousness while his mind tells him otherwise, but he still has to try. He believes to have managed, but it's difficult to tell with his eyes closed and the ever-there sensation of warmth and welcoming body heat all around him. Maybe he's petting a cheek, the stark bone structure of a brow or temple just inches from his fingers; maybe he’s holding onto a round shoulder or pointed elbow. Maybe he's clutching a soft ear, grasping it like a child with a toy, to ease sleep and rid the world of harm, protected by the shape against his body. Maybe it's patronizing or humiliating for Caduceus to have his body handled so, but it's the brew’s fault for reducing Caleb to his base functions, his primal instincts, he really should’ve considered the implications before offering a cup of whatever he’d steeped in his kettle to him, of all people. Bad things tended to happen when Caleb let go of control, even in his sleep. But Clay had enough experience to know better.

And there's nothing left in his head as sleep finally takes him, but the single-minded search for shelter.


End file.
